


The Problem with Prophecy

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Cheunh Language (Star Wars), F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fluff, Gift Giving, Oracles, Original Character(s), Prophecy, Seikosha, Soulmates, The Force, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Wine, name kink, thryce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22433623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: If someone told you when and where you would meet your soulmate, would you be able to resist the blind date with destiny?  Governor Pryce can't.
Relationships: Arihnda Pryce/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 33
Kudos: 65





	1. Prophecies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Thryce Discord's Valentine's Day 2020 ficathon. Huge thanks to [JediMordsith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediMordsith/pseuds/JediMordsith) for helping write/fix the ending, and to my ultrafast beta and wonderful cheerleader [JessKo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/pseuds/JessKo) for the support and everything else!

Arihnda Pryce didn’t like feeling foolish, and it was an all-too-familiar experience of late.

Sitting in the surprisingly classy cantina atop Cairn’s most plush hotel, she sipped iced juice and looked at the view. The _Event Horizon_ —not the most original name—had a 360 degree panorama of the Seikosha capital. She’d never been to the jungle planet, and couldn’t say she liked it, although the thunderstorms raging outside the transparisteel in the fading dawn lent a very dramatic look to everything. The clear walls were soundproof, somehow, and so the veins of greenish lightning blazed artfully across and down from the purple clouds without so much as a sizzle. Admittedly beautiful, in a strange and disturbing way. Definitely not her idea of a vacation, though it _was_ a remarkable sight. Since she had nothing else to do at the moment, Pryce thought with a scowl, she may as well take it in.

She should have expected the Ithorian would send her to a jungle world—wasn’t Ithor mainly rainforest?

This whole thing was a stupid waste of time. Pryce switched from sipping to gulping, draining the glass with a three long draughts, punctuated by serendipitous, simultaneous clashes of electricity outside.

Eight weeks ago, Lothalian security forces had captured the alien oracle. Captured was perhaps a generous term—apparently the man had wandered straight into a patrol and stated that the Force was with them, a taunt if ever there was one. Her head of security admitted he didn’t know what crime applied, but a possible lead on hidden Jedi was always interesting. Although skeptical, Pryce had decided to interrogate the Ithorian personally, certain that the rumors about such priests being Force sensitive were lies. 

She had been mistaken, Pryce was forced to admit in hindsight. Very.

The alien had been maddeningly calm and courteous. Then, during her questioning, begun spewing his inane auguries.

“You,” he had intoned with thickly-accented authority, “are a very fortunate woman.”

She’d scoffed, made some comment about being good at catching Rebel scum, but he’d ignored her.

“Your divided existence is at an end; your immortal soul is but half of a whole. Destiny has chosen your mate. It is the will of the eternal, of Mother Jungle and nature, of the galaxy itself.” 

His voice was as matter-of-fact as if he were reciting the weather patterns of Tanaab. Years of solitude overrode innate cynicism, made her pause. This was an entirely new tack for a prisoner to take, and although Pryce didn’t believe a word the Ithorian said, she decided to humor him.

“Oh?” she’d sneered. “Do tell. Tall dark and handsome? But only if I let you go?”

“My release is certain,” the oracle had informed her in that same peaceful tone. “I am here of my own accord, and my fate is out of your hands.” He seemed to smile, although it was difficult to tell on that ugly face.

As far as she was concerned, the priest wasn’t making sense, and Pryce had been more annoyed than intrigued. But before she could correct his assumption with the help of an interrogation droid, the Ithorian closed his bulging eyes and continued: “You will unite on the eighth day of the eighth month at the eighth hour on the eighth planet in the eighth system of the Borderlands on the eighteenth level.”

“You’re—”

He cut her off with a severe bob of his huge head, going on like he was the one in control. “You _will_ go, Governor,” the alien pronounced, opening his eyes and turning to look at her. “It is destined. The outcome has been foreordained.”

“You already said that,” Pryce growled, eyes narrowing, “and I don’t care.”

That seemed to surprise her prisoner, who stuttered a moment before he tried to speak again, but this time it was Pryce who interrupted.

“I don’t believe in soulmates or destiny. Your religion won’t help you now. All this mystic crap can’t make me release you.” She scoffed, derision heavy in her words. “Eighth this and eighth that. Let me guess: his name has eight letters and he’s eight years old.”

The Ithorian chuckled softly, a garbled, aquatic sound. “The heart of his name has but three letters, Governor, although his home boasts eight.”

She didn’t believe him, she _really_ didn’t, but Pryce was curious. Three letters—her brain automatically recorded the useless information. And the priest didn’t say anything about her age assumption, probably stalling for time. _I’ll indulge him_ , she told herself.

“What else? Go on, tell me more. Tell me everything! And how do you know this? The Force?”

The slightest tilt of his oblong head met her questions. Pryce couldn’t discern if it was a sign of agreement or defiance. 

“Your fate is a gift from Mother Jungle; she loves you and loves your other half, as all her children.” 

“Preposterous,” Pryce snarled. “I should have you executed for treason. It is forbidden to use the Force—”

Once again, the priest acted as if she had not spoken, interrupting. 

“I do not see his face,” the Ithorian admitted, “I only feel his aura—raw and strange, and perfectly matched to yours.”

“How convenient,” she mocked. Of _course_ any useful description would be denied her. It was more proof that this creature was a charlatan, trying to distract from his own crimes.

“Go to him. You will find happiness. The prevalence of eight is a fortuitous omen—the symbol of eternity, love that is unending.”

It was too much. Why should he wish her _happiness_? He was her prisoner, accused of Rebel sympathies and using the Force outside of his religious practices, against the law. Pryce pushed the call to summon the IT-O droid, watching its approach with grim satisfaction. A needle unfolded from its round chassis, already heated and threatening.

“What about you?” she glared at her captive. “Do _you_ have a soulmate? Or you just like inventing fortunes for others?”

“I wish all beings—including you, Governor—love, freedom, and joy,” said the Ithorian, unperturbed as the menacing droid drew closer. “As with every priest of my sect, my soul is mated to Mother Jungle. We are absolute pacifists.”

Furious at his calm, Pryce gave the command to inject skirtopanol into the prisoner’s veins, and suddenly everything went dark.

~~

Pryce came to seated at her Greel wood desk in the gubernatorial offices. Panicked, she pulled up cellblock records on her datapad. 

She had released the prisoner, signed the papers herself. But she couldn’t remember _why_. It had been almost three hours since the administrative action had processed, according to the timestamp on the datapad’s screen, yet she had no memory of any time passing at all. The Force-using bastard had pulled some sort of mind trick on her, distracted her with all that soulmate bantha shit. _Some pacifist_ , she snorted, embarrassed at her own failure to anticipate such an outcome. 

Quickly Pryce went into the interrogation notes to cover her mistakes and incompetency. A few adjustments to the record: a case of mistaken identity—the Ithorian was loyal to the Empire and would inform on his fellow priests. Done. Next, into the detention cell security cam footage. Pryce wasn’t entirely shocked to see that the cameras had been turned off. Perhaps a “suggestion” to the stormtrooper guarding him before her arrival. In any case, no one could question her actions now. The only evidence of what had happened was the remembrance of his amorous prediction and the infuriating blank spots that followed it. But, Pryce vowed, if she ever saw that priest again, she’d put a blaster bolt through his manipulative, prophesizing hammerhead.

~~

Pryce was able to resist all of three days before caving in to her own curiosity. In the privacy of her personal quarters, she brought up the relevant star charts. 

The eighth system in the Borderlands was usually considered Breago, and it had only one inhabited planet, which, entirely coincidentally, Pryce assured herself, was the eighth from its sun. Seikosha. 

Some more investigation unearthed the fact that due to tropical cyclones and lightning strikes, most of the construction on Seikosha was squat and low to the ground. Only one building on the entire planet had eighteen floors, a luxury hotel with a cantina on top—where she was currently seated, nursing her moof juice.

It was stupid. Pryce _knew_ it was stupid. But she was overdue for a holiday and coincidentally the _Chimaera_ was being deployed for a quick sojourn to the Outer Rim. Coruscant had mandated periodic hyperlane policing, a token show of strength and authority to keep the smugglers on their toes. Pryce didn’t really care as to the why of it, but when she’d asked Thrawn for a lift, he had graciously agreed.

“It will be only a two-day stop in Breago,” he had warned her, when she’d mentioned her desire to accompany.

“That’s fine, Grand Admiral,” she had replied, after confirming the two days included the eighth day of the eighth month. “Thank you.”

She hadn’t volunteered her purpose, and Thrawn hadn't asked, something for which Pryce was inordinately grateful. The last thing she wanted was to have to concoct some stupid reason to go to Seikosha. _I already have a stupid reason,_ she thought without humor.

So she had arrived, after a painless and boring trip berthed in one of the _Chimaera’s_ comfortable visiting dignitary suites. And now, the eighth hour was approaching.

The entry to the cantina was through a helical staircase in the center of the circular floor. Easy to keep an eye on. The bar wasn’t busy, but wasn’t empty either, considering the early hour. Pryce had tried to imagine herself paired with any of the people who had appeared since her arrival, and couldn’t. The only remotely good-looking man had quickly joined a woman at a dining area table—clearly not soulmate material.

Pryce ordered another drink, cursing all Ithorian priests and her own gullibility. Maybe he had implanted the urge to come here in her brain like another Jedi mind trick. She wondered. This frivolous pursuit of destiny didn’t _feel_ like something she would typically do, but Pryce also couldn’t discount her own lunacy and loneliness as factors in the trip. It had been a difficult year, and she was tired. Needed a break, at the very least, and wouldn’t mind a strong shoulder to lean on either, if that was in the cards.

Another flash of crooked lightning turned the interior into a brilliantly flooded stage, and Pryce winced. What if this was a trap? What if the Ithorian had set her up, planned to assassinate a high-ranking Imperial by luring her with a promise of fated love to this location? Seikosha was supposed to be neutral, but there had been rumors of Rebel activity in the sector not long ago… The criminal elements that ruled the planet had sworn loyalty to the Empire, but—

“Governor.”

The low voice made her jump, despite Thrawn’s typical soothing and even tone. Pryce turned on her bar stool to meet his implacable regard, feeling a flush climb her cheeks. This was exceptionally poor timing.

“Grand Admiral, good morning. I thought you were heading to the university.” 

Yesterday, Commodore Faro had mentioned that Thrawn was considering a trip planetside to personally review artifacts housed in the school’s research wing. Now, looking at him, standing almost too close to her knees, Pryce realized he was indeed dressed for an excursion. Out of uniform, there was nonetheless a stern aspect to the Chiss’ presentation. He wore a black, tight-fitting tunic and matching pants with oddly placed pockets instead of his Admiral’s Whites; the outfit seemed more utilitarian than leisurely, like something he’d found in a mechanic’s locker.

“It had been my intention, Governor, until Corporal Pnir reported that you refused a security detail this morning.”

Shavit, is that what this was about? She didn’t want stormtrooper bodyguards standing in the shadows as she drank alone at a bar waiting for the soulmate that would surely never come. What a mess. Pryce conveniently had forgotten her recent concern regarding potential assassination plots.

“So you came instead, Admiral? I’m flattered.”

The words were out before she could stop them, and the flush crept higher, but Thrawn didn’t visibly react. He opened his mouth to speak, as the Seikoshan bartender interrupted.

“Get you anything, sir?” the native asked. His clipped Basic sounded more affected than authentic, his pale red eyes not remotely as nice a shade as the Grand Admiral’s. Pryce gave herself a mental slap, wondering at her brain’s priorities. Of all the things to notice, when she should be focusing on the clientele, the sithspawned prophecy, the problem of whether or not she had lost her mind by even _coming_ here…

“No, thank you,” Thrawn answered, not even sparing the man a glance, eyes still fixed on Pryce. She didn’t like the way he was staring—as if trying to read her thoughts or divine her purpose.

“I came, Governor Pryce, to ask you to reconsider. As my guest, your safety is my responsibility.” He nodded to a seemingly empty area of the room, near the northwestern viewing panels. “Rukh will not get in your way, or interfere with your…” he looked blankly at her drink, then back to her face “…personal time.”

“I wouldn’t want your own security to suffer,” she retorted, knowing that if he left Rukh, there was nothing she could do about it. It wasn’t like she could even see the creature, hiding in plain sight as the Noghri was wont to do.

“A stormtrooper detachment is waiting downstairs with my speeder.” Thrawn’s small smile grew slightly, apparently anticipating her agreement. “They will be helpful if we encounter resistance from the academic sector.”

Resistance. Thrawn no doubt hoped to liberate the university of any artistic treasures he took an interest in. Not a bad idea to take backup, in that case. Still, Pryce wasn’t going to have Thrawn's bodyguard be a witness to her folly, whether or not someone showed up. And then, realizing it was now well past eight, she couldn’t resist a glance to the staircase, just a scan to assure herself no one had arrived while they were talking.

“Expecting someone, Governor?”

Cursing her reflexes and his observational skills, Pryce tried to look uncaring. “Perhaps.”

Thrawn’s eyes seemed to burn a deeper red, as he abruptly drew some conclusion, his skin turning a stranger shade of blue.

“I did not realize…”

_Good_ , Pryce thought, letting the silence lie awkwardly between them. His assumption that he was interfering with some sort of romantic tryst should get him away and gone. Better than trying to explain if and when someone showed up.

Clearing his throat, Thrawn straightened, nodded at her. “Nonetheless, for your safety, I would prefer to leave Rukh at least on the premises. If you have no objection.”

“I do, actually, Grand Admiral,” Pryce cocked an eyebrow in what she hoped was a convincing show of confidence. “This is my private time, and I prefer to keep it…private.” She saw Thrawn was unconvinced by the line of his sharply set jaw. “I can take care of myself.”

“And your companion?”

The question grated. The longer he stood here, the less likely any possible companion was going to announce himself. Wincing at the realization of just how much she had stupidly bought into that rebellious priest’s words, Pryce snapped without thinking.

“My _companion_ is none of your business, Grand Admiral. Now please excuse me.” She looked to her drink, picking it up and swirling the juice once before taking a swig.

He didn’t move. Pryce finally lifted her eyes, seeing Thrawn scan the room far more thoroughly than she had, like a vornskr before pouncing. Surveillance complete, his gaze returned to her face. 

“I will tell Rukh to stand sentry outside the hotel, as a compromise? I assure you of his discretion.”

Pryce nodded, saying nothing, averting her eyes once more. She had no choice, clearly. The entire situation was beyond embarrassing, and it was certain she had offended him with her earlier sharp words. His concern for her well-being was…well, it was normal, wasn’t it? His _responsibility_ , as Thrawn had said. For his guest. It was nothing more than duty for him, and that was as it should be, Pryce argued to herself, ignoring the dull twist in her stomach.

Without another sound, Thrawn walked towards the winding staircase that disappeared into the floor. Pryce watched from beneath her eyelids, heart pounding in her chest. Rukh appeared as if a holo had been turned on at Thrawn’s side. A few seconds later, he disappeared again. Thrawn, on the other hand, did not. He spun on his heel and walked over to a small table in the southwest dining area, taking a seat and nodding at the server droid.

Mortified and angry, Pryce’s look turned to a glare. She checked her chrono. Almost ten past eight. Surreptitiously, she made it a point to check all 360 degrees of the cantina. No single men that looked remotely interesting, and none that had arrived at the appointed time. Only Thrawn, now sipping a drink almost as blue as his skin, avoiding her eyes, staring out the window at the day’s electrical storm.

Thrawn. Pryce stared, taking in the Grand Admiral’s casual grace, lean lines, and arrogant profile. He was attractive. Unattached. And definitely not her soulmate. A grim smile crossed her lips. Three letters. The Ithorian had said the man’s name was three letters long. Thrawn full name was…she counted…fifteen. Thank the gods. What sort of a destiny would it be, to be tied to someone like the Grand Admiral? Pryce bit back a smirk. He was smart, he was almost maddeningly attentive at times, and yes, he was handsome in his alien way, but …

She couldn’t think of a but.

Well, it didn’t matter. Pryce ordered another juice, drinking this third one even more slowly. She had optimistically taken a room at the hotel, assuring herself that at least she would have two days off, and no need to sleep on the ship. Now it felt wasteful. Thrawn was clearly not going anywhere, postponing his own plans to spy on her. It was insulting, she decided, anger beginning to replace the shame in her blood. 

“Some breakfast, ma’am?” the server asked in that sterile, crisp tone.

Feeling close to tears, Pryce nodded, accepting the menu and ordering the first item that she recognized, a Metalorn fruit salad. It arrived too quickly. A few more guests had trickled into the cantina, one a fairly good-looking human. Wonder of wonders, he came and sat three stools down. She pushed away her salad, deciding to move closer and introduce herself. Nothing to lose at this point. But damn Thrawn, still at that table, pretending not to look at her but she was certain he was—

Another handsome human wandered over to the bar, his dark complexion and tousled hair even more appealing than the first. Pryce stifled a grin. Even if this guy wasn’t her soulmate, he looked like he could be fun…

Her heart plummeted as he sat next to the other stranger, one hand sliding along the first man’s spine with an unmistakable air of entitlement. Obviously together.

Today seemed to be nothing but a series of humiliations. Pryce resettled on her stool, yanking the salad bowl back in front of her and violently spearing a blumfruit with her fork. Of course the priest had lied. She didn’t have half her soul waiting somewhere in the galaxy to “unite” with her on this backwater planet that had nothing to offer anyone except electrical storms and infamously strong liquor.

After the salad, she ordered a tibanna split. Not exactly breakfast, but most definitely comfort food. Pryce had given up, and before she retreated downstairs to the suite she had optimistically splurged on, she would brace herself with sweetness to face the inevitable look of pity on the Grand Admiral’s face as she left.

Stood up by an imaginary soulmate. What could be more degrading?

Spooning another dose of beebleberry ice cream between her lips, Pryce didn’t notice Thrawn’s return to her side until he was already there, solid and striking as always.

“Governor,” he said smoothly. “May I join you?”

“I’m leaving in a moment,” she grumbled, mouth full.

Thrawn ignored that, taking the stool to her left. “Your appointment is late.”

“My _appointment_ won’t be coming,” she muttered, teeth clashing on the strange ceramic of the spoon between her lips. The admission hurt to say aloud, but there was no salvaging pride at this point. “As you no doubt are aware, lurking in the corner like a loth-bat.”

“This room has no corners,” Thrawn observed mildly, tossing a credit chip on the bill that the bartender set before her. Pryce let him pay. It was the least he could do for ruining her morning. She was more than happy to blame Thrawn for everything that had gone wrong, including the absence of her prophesied lover.

“Perhaps there was a miscommunication as to the rendezvous time?”

Pryce shook her head, feeling drunk as well as depressed, although she hadn’t had any of the lum ale famous in this sector. “Eight. The eighth hour.”

She had no idea why she'd admitted that detail, but it was out, and Thrawn appeared to consider it seriously. He was silent, lips pressed tightly together. The edges of his eyes tightened, small lines appearing and smoothing as if some internal contemplation was unusually taxing.

“Seikosha’s rotation is 28 standard hours, and uses the meridiem system,” he remarked at last. “The eighth hour did just pass, but there is a second eighth hour, this evening. Eight past fourteen, or…” he glanced at the holo-chrono floating behind the bar. “…less than fourteen hours from now.”

She was an idiot. Of course, eight at night was also a possibility. A far more likely time to encounter one’s soulmate. Closing her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts, Pryce wondered why Thrawn was being so nice about this. She’d been so rude earlier.

Opening her eyes, she met his red gaze and nodded. “I suppose that’s true.” She tried a small smile. “It doesn’t matter, though.” Pryce shrugged, a slow movement that she hoped looked as dismissive as she wanted. “It’s not important.”

Thrawn, she sensed, did not believe her, but at least he didn’t argue.

“Excellent. May I ask you to accompany me to the university, then Governor, as you are unexpectedly free? Your diplomatic skills and political status should be quite useful.” He smiled, but it was not mocking. “It will not interfere with your evening plans.”

It was true that Thrawn wasn’t the most tactful of people when he needed something. Pryce responded to the flattery, despite seeing it for what it was. He was offering her a path to dignity, and she would take it. Their professional collaboration could distract from this personal indignation. And she had nothing else to do…at least until eight tonight, if she decided to try another ridiculous stakeout. At this point, Pryce didn’t know if she had the stomach for thirty more minutes of disappointment.

“Certainly,” she replied, sliding off the stool. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“My pleasure,” Thrawn answered, following her to the staircase.


	2. Problems

They headed directly to the university, where the Seikoshan art school dean was accommodating, if reluctantly so. He obviously appreciated the Grand Admiral’s interest in local art, but also was resistant to giving up some of the school’s prized collection to an Imperial’s private study. Pryce helped convince the man as to the wisdom of compliance, and Thrawn, in oddly good humor, agreed to accept high-quality holos of two pieces that the professor sputtered were integral to native cultural history. Thrawn’s stormtrooper detachment was summarily dispatched back to the _Chimaera_ laden with sculptures, oils, and botanical artworks. Only Rukh stayed on as the morning grew late.

After the small museum, they wandered the vast campus and were given a tour of the innovative tunnels. The underground network was designed to shelter students moving between classes in the midst of torrential downpours and dangerous lightning storms. Their obsequious guide escorted his guests to a domed atrium designated for senior faculty, where they were served with a traditional Seikoshan seven-course lunch. Pryce didn’t like most of the food—it seemed better suited to reptilian than human digestion—but Thrawn had enough appetite for both of them.

Rather than end their sojourn after the meal, Thrawn suggested they explore the Cairn central business district. He didn’t seem to mind stopping at clothing outlets and jewelry stores, and Pryce found a new tunic that she quite liked in a trendy boutique. 

She tried it on in the dressing room, and overheard the shopkeeper asking Thrawn if they had any children. Holding her breath, Pryce couldn’t discern the Grand Admiral’s response, much to her chagrin. But she was more than curious to see the Chiss’ reaction to such an assumption, bursting out of the dressing room in hopes of catching a glimpse. 

"How effervescent! How breathtaking!" The solicitous salesperson immediately heaped praise upon Pryce at her sudden emergence. 

Thrawn's unlined face was as impassive as ever. He stood, arms crossed, head tilted, eyes unreadable, looking at her.

"This color is perfect—just ideal for your complexion," the Seikoshan continued gushing, as Pryce tried to ignore her. "...And this material is the absolute finest shimmersilk. You can't even _find_ it anymore in most systems, it's just scooped up immediately by all the top designers." Undaunted at Pryce's tight-lipped inexpression, the litany of compliments continued, an effusive drone that she tuned out.

How could Thrawn be so immune to such an audacious suggestion? Imagine being the Grand Admiral’s life partner—the mother of his children—what an idea! She couldn’t even dream of it. Yet Thrawn exhibited no reaction to the imprudent alien's assumption or unending flattery.

To punish the Seikoshan's presumption and rudeness, Pryce quickly returned to the dressing room, leaving the gorgeous tunic on the rack. She wouldn't deign to give this shop her credits. Honestly, how could anyone stay in business being so impertinent and nosy about their customers? She stalked out in a huff.

Thrawn followed shortly after into the rainy afternoon.

"I dispatched Rukh on an errand," he remarked, looking unperturbed by the weather and her mood.

Pryce, far more confident than she had felt earlier in the day, couldn't resist a joke at the loss of their bodyguard.

"You were so concerned about security this morning, Grand Admiral," she laughed, "yet now you've left me completely unprotected."

Wordlessly, Thrawn pulled aside his overcoat to display the RK-3 blaster strapped to well-defined leg muscles, perfectly displayed by tight pants. Her laughter faltered slightly, until she saw Thrawn's amused look, white teeth exposed by the smallest of smiles.

"I am honored to serve, Governor."

The words sounded teasing, and Pryce's skin grew warm and stomach tight. She liked the idea of Thrawn attending her safety—liked it more than she would have guessed. Almost everything about this day, actually, she'd thoroughly enjoyed, despite the miserable way it had begun. Thrawn hadn’t mentioned her morning misadventure once, and for that she was grateful. The Grand Admiral was far better company than she would have predicted—pleasant and engaging—and around five o’clock (that is, the fifth hour past the fourteenth hour on Seikosha), Pryce realized she wasn’t looking forward to the end of their time together.

But true to his word, Thrawn returned her to the hotel well before nightfall. He said nothing regarding evening plans, but Pryce felt she owed him something. It had been his intervention that had salvaged her ‘vacation,’; she hadn't felt this relaxed in ages. Time had lent perspective, and she was more certain than ever that the Ithorian priest had been full of bantha shit. 

Pryce decided abruptly not to stake out the cantina again that evening. Destiny wasn’t truly destiny, was it, if you had to go meet it? It should come to you, no matter what. That’s what a real soulmate was—fated and inevitable, not positioned at a set time and location, only occurring under stringent conditions.

“Thank you for inviting me today, Grand Admiral,” Pryce said, summoning what she hoped was a charming smile. “Do you have plans tonight?”

Thrawn misunderstood. “I will not interfere with your evening, Governor, you have my word.” His tone was serious. “And I apologize for this morning.”

Her smile turned into a grimace, but Pryce kept it plastered on. 

“I was going to ask you to join me, actually.” She clutched her daybag a bit tighter. “For dinner.”

Still not understanding, Thrawn glanced at the dashboard chrono. “Ah, yes, if we dine immediately the timing—”

“Kriff the timing,” she snapped, then grit her teeth, taking a deep breath. “What I mean is I don’t have _any_ evening plans.” Pryce met his searing eyes with determination. “ _Any_.”

The red in his gaze seemed to darken to maroon—a richer, deeper color. Thrawn swallowed, jaw clenched, and for an instant Pryce thought he would refuse. 

“And if your appointment appears?”

“He won’t,” she said flatly. “It was stupid and he won’t.” Pryce sighed, letting her head fall back on the speeder seat. “I’ll explain it at dinner, all right?”

“All right,” Thrawn said quietly, “shall I meet you there?”

“Yes,” she slid out of the vehicle, wondering where he would go in the interim. “Meet me at eight.”

“I look forward to it, Governor,” he said, and drove off.

~~

Her hotel suite was dimly lit, the night cycle lights a pleasant shade of dark purple, not unlike the storm clouds outside. A package greeted her, on the hallway table, with no accompanying card or identifying marks. Suspiciously, Pryce pried the wrapping off. It was the shimmersilk tunic she’d tried on. Suddenly Rukh’s absence made sense. Thrawn had sent him back to the hotel with this…

Well “made sense” was going a bit far. It didn’t _really_ make sense. Why had he purchased it? Yes, he’d seen her in it, and it was beautiful. Becoming. And expensive. But she had put it back on the rack. Annoyed and not entirely sure why, Pryce mentally complained. She made a good salary. She could have bought it easily. What had possessed Thrawn? Was it some sort of apology for this morning? Or a more sentimental, meaningful offering? She had no idea.

The evening suddenly took on a different ambiance. Anticipation sped up her pulse and tightened her lungs. She’d invited Thrawn to dinner. He’d given her a present. Was this a date? Did he expect her to wear the shirt? And why, of all things, had she agreed to explain the insanity of this morning? With a groan, Pryce stripped and stepped into the luxurious refresher. Seikosha got plenty of rain, and the hotel’s amenities reflected that fact. A large soaking tub was the centerpiece of the room, complete with hydroshower and various output options. Temperature, pressure, and even chemical composition, pH, and the nutrients within were customizable.

The pounding of the water helped clear Pryce's mind and soothe her greatly damaged ego. Thrawn was a friend, or as close as she had to one. She liked him, and she thought he liked her. Certainly there was no other compelling reason to have spent the entire day in one another’s company. And she had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed the conversation, the activities, and, surprisingly, the romantic inferences being made about them on the streets and in the shops of Cairn. She even, Pryce made herself admit as she lathered the Millaflower-scented shampoo through her hair, liked that he’d bought her the tunic she’d spitefully refused to get for herself. She _had_ wanted it, and it _did_ look lovely on her, even if the shopkeeper’s extravagant compliments had been merely a sales tactic.

Thrawn knew her better than most—appreciated her talents and understood her work ethic. So if there was anyone she could trust an absurd prophecy to, it was the Grand Admiral. Still, it wouldn’t do to tell him the whole of it. She _had_ let a Force-sensitive priest escape because she had underestimated him, and Thrawn would not be amused by that. No, she’d have to lie, or at least omit the source of the prediction. 

Pryce slicked back her hair, dabbed on just a hint of makeup, and, after a solid half-hour of debate, put on the new tunic. It was a concession to his thoughtfulness, that’s all it was, she told herself. And the garment _was_ outrageously flattering, clinging to her breasts with just the right drape of fabric, hanging in a soft line above her hips. Her black silkweed skirt matched it nicely, and the look was complete with knee-high boots. 

She went to the cantina early, fully expecting Thrawn to be there before eight. He often arrived in advance of scheduled times for meetings. Of course this time, he wasn’t. Pryce pushed away burgeoning apprehension and accepted the hostess’ seating suggestion, against the transparisteel. Lightning bolts still waltzed in silent asymmetry through the clouds. Taking the chair with the best view of the staircase—not because she was expecting her unknown destiny to ascend it, she told herself—Pryce barely looked at the menu and waved away the modified GG-class server droid. It was just past twilight, and the roiling indigo of the sky was undeniably beautiful. Her attention was divided between gazing out the curved window at the tempestuous spectacle and furtively trying not to evaluate all the guests coming upstairs for dinner.

The eighth hour came. Thrawn still did not show. This was very unlike him, but before she could get too worked up about his lateness, at three minutes after, the Grand Admiral appeared. He too had changed his outfit, wearing a rich bronze shirt that she’d obviously never seen before, its color like the perfectly oxidized patina on an ancient sculpture in one of his artifact holos. Pryce didn’t understand fashion as much as she would have liked, but was surprised at how nicely it set off his skin tone. The pants were well-tailored—she almost blushed at the fit—and appeared black, but as he looked around the room, not seeing her yet, she registered that they were an exceptionally dark green. Another tone well-suited to one of the museums Thrawn liked to haunt. She wondered if the Grand Admiral had been conscious of the aesthetic parallels, and decided it didn’t matter. He looked … very nice. A work of art himself, really.

She stood up to be more conspicuous, and Thrawn’s head snapped to her direction. Taking in the empty chair across from her, he smiled briefly, crossing the room in a few strides. She wondered, in the space of the few breaths between that glance and his arrival, if he had delayed his entrance to ascertain that she indeed was sincere about wanting to dine with him, and no one _but_ him…

“Good evening.” He waited for her to sit before doing the same. There was nothing unusual in his tone, nothing to give her a clue as to his impressions or intentions. It was aggravating; Pryce wasn’t sure if she wanted him to comment on her new tunic or not. When he did not, she convinced herself that was the preferred option. Things were awkward enough already without having to field a discussion of his unprompted gift-giving.

“Good evening,” she repeated, the sound not as enthused as she felt. He seemed to sense it.

“Are you certain I’m not intruding?” he asked, looking briefly around the bustling cantina. “I understand if—”

“You aren’t,” she interrupted with a sigh, suddenly too worn down by the morning's ordeal to summon any emotion stronger than fatigue. Maybe this hadn't been such a great plan. “Please, let’s get something to eat.”

The server droid appeared as if it had been eavesdropping, and perhaps it had. Thrawn quickly skimmed the offerings on the menu as she half-listened to the specials.

“Kommerken steak, rare,” Thrawn ordered, “with bantha butter. Switch out the ootoowergs for bellassan peppers.”

“Very good sir,” said the GG. “Would you like otoomian onions stir-fried with the peppers as well?”

Thrawn looked somewhat annoyed at the question and shook his head.

“And for you, madam?” The droid was unruffled at Thrawn’s silence.

“The same,” Pryce said, unable to concentrate. Her eyes were on the menu but her thoughts were on the unusual wide V-cut of Thrawn’s top. It wasn’t a typical style for men, and she thought its dramatic exposure of skin meant it probably was extremely expensive. Where had he found such a thing? From his homeworld perhaps? It was far too fashionable to be something off the rack. She was glad she’d worn her new tunic, in any event. Nothing she had brought in her luggage was as stylish.

“And a beverage?”

Thrawn’s eyes met hers in question, but Pryce hadn’t even given the wine list a glance. Neither had her companion.

“You decide,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t take too long. She was hungry _and_ thirsty. Very thirsty.

“Do you stock Necr’ygor Omic?” he asked. Pryce’s eyes widened. She had never had that wine—too expensive and rare. But it was true that it was popular, she had heard, with criminal kingpins. It was likely, even logical, that this cantina had it, given Seikosha’s powerful underworld.

“Yes sir. It’s not on the list, however, due to the—”

“Fine,” Thrawn silenced the droid. “We’ll take a ’49 or ’47 vintage. If you don’t have one of those, nothing younger than ‘53.”

“We have a ’48 sir, if that is acceptable.”

Thrawn nodded, glowing eyes still on Pryce, and the droid vanished on its soundless repulsors.

“I didn’t know you liked wine, Grand Admiral.” Pryce felt a little more at ease, despite the oddity of sharing a meal in this garishly luxurious environment. A flash of lightning splashed into the room, turning Thrawn’s eyes almost white for a fraction of a second.

“I am afraid my tastes are rather expensive in that area,” he leaned back slightly in the chair, “so I don’t indulge often. And please,” he waved a hand indicating the space between them, “call me Thrawn.”

Six letters. The first thing Pryce thought at his invitation, rather than marvel at the unprecedented shift to informality, was that it was too bad his name wasn’t three letters. Thrawn certainly fit all other aspects of the Ithorian priest’s portended fate. And, if she was honest, met or exceeded all her personal criteria for a romantic partner, although she would never admit it to him.

“Of course,” she smiled, forgetting to offer her own first name in return. “Thrawn…would you mind telling me the name of your home?”

One of his thin eyebrows arched, and Pryce felt abashed, as if he’d offered a slice of cake and she’d eaten the entire gateau. 

“I just…well…” Words failed her—she had promised to explain this stupid prophecy, she knew, and asking such a random question would only make things more complicated when he realized why she had asked. What was she thinking?

“I’ve been gone for a very long time,” he answered finally. “Might I ask the reason for your request?”

There was something sad in his tone. Pryce felt heartless for asking. Wasn’t it enough that she knew the prophecy was clearly wrong? So what if his home planet was eight letters, or ten letters, or twenty? Why subject Thrawn to such a query? Hadn't she given up on this whole destiny debacle?

She tried to recover.

“There’s a saying on Lothal,” Pryce ventured, “that ‘home is where the heart is’.”

Thrawn said nothing as the server droid returned with their wine. He approved the vintage and waved the attendant away, evidently preferring to pour himself. As he tipped the bottle of rich ruby liquid into her bell-shaped goblet, he offered a brief smile.

“A poetic statement, implying home is not a location, but a sentiment.”

 _Or a person,_ Pryce refrained from adding. Instead, she nodded, waiting as he finished filling his own glass, then reached for her drink.

“Poetic, yes, but I still think of Lothal as home. In both senses,” she added.

“Then let us call the _Chimaera_ mine.” His smile thinned slightly. “For now. Although our _hearts_ , Governor, are currently on Seikosha.”

They drank without ceremony, Pryce counting letters in her head rather than savoring the overwhelming opulent taste of the wine. Eight letters. Both the ship and the planet. What was Thrawn saying? It didn’t mean anything, really, did it? The name of his Star Destroyer surely couldn’t have been the oracle’s intention. But prophecies were riddles, weren’t they? Perhaps it _had_ been the point. Ah, and Thrawn had called her by her title. Acutely, she recognized her earlier lapse in courtesy.

“Arihnda, please.”

“Arihnda,” he repeated, raising his glass slightly in acknowledgement before taking another sip. Pryce realized she’d never heard Thrawn say her first name before, and it left her, inexplicably, breathless. It was just a name, three syllables and three vowels, but it sounded powerful and perfect on his lips. Like something fated.

The wine must be strong, Pryce thought. Surely Thrawn wasn’t her soulmate. The very idea…

She tried to think of what else the oracle had said. “Strange” with an “aura perfectly matched” to hers. Hmph. Strange could technically mean alien, she supposed. But auras weren’t real… more Force nonsense.

The food arrived and Pryce involuntarily looked past the GG unit towards the staircase again. Thrawn noticed. He was too observant.

Clearing his throat, Thrawn pulled himself to his full height in the chair, making no move to touch his steak.

“I believe you were going to explain,” his head inclined slightly towards the entrance, “as to how I wound up being your substitute this evening.”

The phrase was spoken evenly but Pryce imagined she heard something defensive in the tone. 

“You’re not a substitute, Gr—Thrawn.” Men were so sensitive sometimes. Pryce exhaled slowly, resigned to telling him some version of the unfortunate story. “I’m quite certain this has all worked out for the best.”

He said nothing, but, seemingly appeased, reached for his cutlery, and she did the same.

“A long time ago…” Pryce began, allowing herself some stretching of the truth. And time was relative anyway. “…an oracle, some sort of fortune teller, you know,” she shrugged like it was an incidental detail, “told me to come here and I would…meet someone important.”

Taking a bite of his meal, Thrawn was listening, but offered no comment.

“I know it’s stupid, but I figured why not? I deserved a couple days off, at the very least,” she added in her own defense.

“So…I came and of course no one showed up.” This resulted in a small twist of his lips, but still no comment. “You probably think I’m an idiot, and that’s fine. I _feel_ like an idiot. I just…well, they seemed certain and I decided there was no harm in it.”

Embarrassed by the admission, Pryce riveted her eyes to her plate and started on the steak as well. She took large quaffs of wine between bites. Everything was delicious.

“I showed up,” Thrawn said softly, so softly she replayed the words in her brain twice before meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “You did.”

“But,” he continued, “judging by your disappointment, clearly there was additional criteria that my presence did not fulfill.”

Surprised at his objective analysis, Pryce debated how much to reveal, unable to hide her shock. She had anticipated Thrawn scoffing at listening to a fortune teller, or dispassionately explaining why it was foolish to believe in such things, but instead he had focused on the data that prevented her from considering him the realization of the prophecy.

“Yes…I thought about you, actually, being the person.” Pryce couldn’t believe she’d said the words, but it was too late to take them back. At least she hadn’t said she was waiting for a soulmate. Thank the stars for small favors. “And I admit that timing-wise,” she managed a smile, “you definitely checked all the boxes.”

Thrawn took another sip of his wine, then refilled her glass. She hadn’t noticed it was empty already.

“Which box, may I inquire,” he spoke with deliberation, “was left unchecked?”

Ah well, that was easy, and thankfully wasn’t anything offensive. After all, he couldn’t help not having the right name. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t handsome enough or charming enough or anything subjective like that. The thought drew her eyes back to his throat, the exposed skin along the tunic’s neckline, and Pryce wrenched them quickly back to Thrawn's extremely attractive face. She had to _focus_. A name was just a name, and so Pryce could readily respond, first thanking him for the refill with a lift of her glass before speaking.

“Your name.” Thrawn looked surprised, eyebrows lifting and jaw locking at an unusual angle. She clarified. “He didn’t tell me the name of the person, just said that his name would have three letters.”

“Technically any name longer than two letters has three letters, Arihnda,” Thrawn pointed out.

“All right, true,” she admitted, a pleasant flutter in her belly responding to his easy use of her name, even as she felt a spike of irritation at his logic. Thrawn was too correct, so Pryce threw her mind back to the exact words. She had them memorized, a curse more than a blessing at this point. 

“I put that poorly. What he said was ‘the heart of his name has but three letters.’” She took a bite of fried pepper, looking with curiosity at Thrawn, whose face had changed somehow, but she couldn’t exactly explain the nature of it.

“What?” Now was when he would laugh at her, most likely, or tell her she was no better than an adolescent playing with future sticks to find out where she’d meet her dream prince. 

“And this,” Thrawn said, no longer eating, “was my disqualification?”

“Well, yes,” Pryce confirmed. “I am aware, Thrawn, that your full name is Mitth’raw’nuruodo, apologies for my pronunciation.” Best to admit she had no idea how to say it up front, but she’d read his file. “But clearly both your core name and your full name are too long.”

“Since you mention it…” Thrawn began, pausing as if waiting for her permission to continue. 

She nodded, holding her breath without knowing why. 

“Arihnda, are you aware that my full name, as you call it, contains two family names as well as my given name?”

A clench in her chest emphasized two things—one that she had not known that, and two, there was clearly a reason he was telling her this. Clearly.

“No,” Pryce almost whispered.

“Our names are assembled through a complex system of merit adoption and integration into family bloodlines,” he said calmly. “My given name, then, that which has no link to a kin-group, _is_ three letters. The core name is formed by taking the end of one family name, the given name, and the beginning of the other family name, which results in the six-letter name by which I am most commonly called.”

She couldn't recall Thrawn ever speaking of his culture so plainly before. Blinking rapidly, Pryce worked to process this flood of information.

“Are you saying your real name is ‘ _Raw_ ’?” It sounded ridiculous, but at the same time, Pryce felt relieved. It was Thrawn. It had to be Thrawn. It explained so much, why he was here, why he was so patient with her, why he wasn’t mocking her for her gullibility and belief.

“Its meaning is less than ideal in Basic,” he smiled, “but yes, as your fortune teller romantically phrased it, it is indeed the 'heart' of my name.”

Stars. The priest had even told her his name. The Ithorian had said her soulmate was “raw” and strange. All remaining doubt disappeared.

“Do you actually believe this?” she asked, surprised at her own words.

“The more important question, Arihnda,” he answered, “is do _you_ believe it?”

A good question. An excellent question. She could easily say no, dismiss it all as coincidence. After all, there were so many ways to interpret everything. She could perhaps twist the oracle’s words to apply to every single sentient in this cantina, could find ways to warp his predictions to suit her. But Thrawn’s belief was equally important—if _she_ believed it, she had to believe it was his fortune too...his destiny as well as her own. 

“I wanted to,” she said, confessing far too much and somehow too little. “I want to,” Pryce amended then, feeling a blush start to rise on her cheeks.

“Then we shall,” Thrawn stated with authority, as if it wasn’t akin to professing faith in Geran Sky Seraphs or the Holy Jaf. 

We. He’d said _we_ , as if willing to tie himself to her future without a second thought.

“You don’t know…” Pryce started, wanting him to understand what this was about, but unable to finish. How did you tell someone you just had declared you wanted them to be your soulmate? Was there any way that didn’t sound hopelessly naïve or pathetic?

“I do,” he said calmly when she trailed off. “Long ago…” his eyes twinkled, a rare humor in them, “my security forces captured an Ithorian priest.”

Her eyes grew round at his words. What in the galaxy—

“It seems,” Thrawn continued, “he wished to deliver his tidings to both involved parties.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Pryce accused him, not sure if she was relieved or angry or simply dreaming at the ridiculous nature of it all.

“I had no way of knowing,” he said simply. “Then you explained and it became clear.”

“So the Chimaera’s hyperlane patrol—”

“At my insistence.”

“And all the eights, planet, system, hour, all that…”

“I imagine the coordinates provided were identical.”

“My name?”

Thrawn smiled wider, a subtle curl of lips. “A three letter diminutive, he said.”

Pryce grinned. “My friends used to call me Ari.” Thrawn’s eyes seemed to glow brighter.

“Ari,” he repeated as if it were the strangest thing he’d ever heard. 

“No weirder than Raw,” she laughed, feeling almost giddy at this conversation. “So you let him go? The priest?”

“I determined he was no threat—he seemed primarily interested in conveying his message—but the ISB insisted upon delivering him to Lothal.”

The oracle had probably mind-tricked the security forces as well. Pryce couldn’t believe it. What kind of crazy religion did these Ithorians have, to be voluntarily captured, braving the danger of torture, only to spread portents and prophecy to total strangers?

Thrawn refilled his wine glass and topped hers off. The expensive bottle was thus depleted.

“So now what?” It came out sounding a little harsher than she’d intended.

A small huff that might have been a laugh left Thrawn’s throat as he waited for the server droid to clear their places.

“I do not have the seer’s gift,” Thrawn replied, looking at her intently, “and despite the seeming accuracy of his words, I believe the future is now, and has always been, for us to determine.”

Pryce twirled the goblet stem nervously between her fingers. Shying from his stare, she watched the last bits of liquid swish in a circle. Another bolt of twisted lightning lit up the sky, turning everything dazzling and bright. It was true, what Thrawn said, but she didn’t feel bold, or confident, even knowing he was here for her, and she was here for him. The new tunic shimmered against her skin, a silken caress, a reminder of his attention and consideration. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she conceded, mind overcome with possibility and embarrassing thoughts related to what she hoped would happen. After all, he had agreed to believe along with her, knowing what that meant.

“Arihnda,” Thrawn said, voice so smooth she felt it slide into her ears across the table, “forget the prophecy, forget the priest.” One of his hands moved, twitched, as if he planned to take something, touch something, and thought better of it. “Religion preys upon coincidence and warps statistical probability in its favor. We are together at this moment for many reasons, but principally, because we chose to be here.”

He was right, of course, but Thrawn putting her hopes, her seeming destiny at his side into such clinical terms wasn’t the romantic denouement she had desired. Pryce nodded in gloom, finishing her wine without really tasting it. Thrawn was trying to let her down easy, it was already obvious. She had been wrong to tell him the truth, to relax in his presence. Everyone was always only out for themselves, yet for the briefest moment she had believed he cared for her. Biting her lip, she forced herself to meet Thrawn’s fiery stare as he continued.

“You are my ally, my colleague. I enjoy your company. And more and more frequently, I find myself concerned with your success and happiness.”

She still didn’t know how to respond, eyes unhelpfully drawn to the muscles outlined by his shirt and the restless hand he had splayed halfway across the table. But Thrawn appeared finished with his thought, and Pryce replayed his words while she constructed a suitable response. 

What he was offering was clear enough — a return to their normal roles. Ever logical and controlled, he was willing to forgive what he saw as her momentary bout of sentimentality and lapse of reason for the sake of their continued working relationship. And why not? Enticing as the vision of him sweeping her off her feet and into her fancy hotel suite to kiss her breathlessly until dawn was, it was the most unlikely of fantasies. Appallingly inappropriate for people of their stature. He was a Grand Admiral and she was an Imperial Governor, and Thrawn was right — religion was for weak minds, prophecies for those with more luxury to dream than anyone in their positions was allowed. No matter how badly she’d wanted the idea of a preordained soulmate to be true, or wanted it to be him.

The server droid arrived and Thrawn held out a credit chip. Pryce shook her head. This wasn't a date. “Put it on my room,” she told it, and with a small bow it swooshed away. The brief interruption had provided a much-needed moment of normalcy in the midst of her disappointment and confusion, and Pryce returned her attention to Thrawn with renewed poise.

“I’m fortunate to have such a colleague,” she said crisply, setting the wine glass down a little too hard, “concerned with my _happiness_.”

Thrawn’s eyes flickered but he said nothing as she went on.

“I understand, of course. Thank you for joining me for dinner, but it’s getting late…” Pryce plucked her napkin from her lap, throwing it atop her empty plate, and started to push her chair back.

Thrawn’s hand closed over her wrist. “I do not believe that you do.”

Pryce looked from the unyielding hand pinning her against the tablecloth to his face. His brow was furrowed in something approaching a frown, and his eyes had sharpened with intensity.

Her heart accelerated under his fixed stare, and Pryce licked her lips. “Perhaps you should explain, then.”

The request seemed to give him pause. Then Thrawn said, very slowly and precisely, “I am proposing, Arihnda, that instead of…progressing due to some purported oracle gambling with our fates, we do so by _choice_.”

Thrawn wanted to _progress_? Is that how he referred to altering their relationship? Affection and exasperation welled up inside her. He was such a bastard. An unreasonably attractive, frighteningly smart bastard, who was also _her_ bastard. Destiny said so.

His lips quirked slightly but he did not release her, hand sliding from her wrist down to thread her fingers in his. Her breath caught at the intimacy of the touch, the feel of his skin against hers.

“A few…conditions, perhaps are in order,” he said then, and Pryce narrowed her eyes. Rules? He was actually going to try to order the "progression" of a romance with parameters? 

Ignoring her reaction, Thrawn rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, which felt very nice and was far too stimulating for what it was. “First, we discard fate and abandon superstition as pretense for our actions.”

Pryce nodded; that was easy enough, considering how he’d explained himself, and she really had no alternative, when it put it that way. A scowl crossed her lips—it was hard not to feel like he was criticizing her hopes. After all, both of them had taken steps to get to this point—irrational, illogical, and arguably destined steps. It was strange to be negotiating like this, and Pryce felt, despite the welcome heat of his fingers and the warmth in his eyes, that something had been leeched from the moment.

“Second, that we pledge honesty in all things to one another.”

One eyebrow raised at that. Pryce didn’t think one hundred percent honesty was a good recipe for any relationship, platonic or otherwise. Thrawn noticed, and elaborated.

“Honesty, Arihnda, prevents most problems. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she answered, wishing he wasn’t holding her hand so she could cross her fingers against the pledge. “Although sometimes, Thrawn, too much honesty can _create_ problems.” There, she’d said it—been honest about not desiring honesty in all things. He could hardly complain, especially since she had already acquiesced to his terms.

Thrawn was silent a moment, and Pryce wondered if she’d gone too far. But it was true—and if he was sincere about honesty, well, he had to accept her opinion. 

“Agreed?” she asked, mimicking his tone.

“Problems are inevitable,” Thrawn said, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. “Hence the proverb: _Rutzah sea tsuntahn can tet._ ” 

He abruptly got to his feet, as if the phrase had triggered something, still holding her hand. Pryce stood as well, but tugged him to a stop as he started to walk. “And?” she challenged, daring him to leave her in the dark.

“Loosely translated,” he held her gaze, “it means ‘all problems may be solved in bed’.”

It was good their fingers were still entwined, his strength sustaining, because Pryce felt a rush of weakness in her legs at his words, the implication, and the way her night had turned out.

“I should mention,” she managed, his hand squeezing hers as she followed him towards the exit, “we have quite a few to resolve.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Thrawn smiled. 


End file.
